


The Unexpected Perks of Feminist Activism (or, "Fingertip Rules")

by jugheadjones



Series: Senior Year [1]
Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Anal Sex, FRED AND FP FUCK IN THIS ONE I JUST WANT TO MAKE THAT CLEAR, Fingering, Hijinks, M/M, Parents, Public Sex, Riverparents, Student Activism, a single homophobic slur is used just a warning, comics canon teachers, dress code bullshit, god what tag do we use anymore, not at the beach this time, original core four, parentdale, porn with plot unrelated to the porn, riverdale high, so many hijinks, weatherbee rocks my socks, yuck im so bad at writing sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-13
Updated: 2017-08-13
Packaged: 2018-12-15 01:42:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11795817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jugheadjones/pseuds/jugheadjones
Summary: In spring of senior year, Alice realizes there's a loophole in the Riverdale High dress code. All female persons at Riverdale High must comply to the "fingertip rule", meaning girls can wear skirts no shorter than their longest extended fingertip when their arms are at their sides.For boys, however, skirt length isn't specified.Or, Alice organizes a sit-in. Fred Andrews wears a tartan skirt, turns heads, and has sex with FP Jones in the teacher's lounge. While wearing the skirt in question.





	The Unexpected Perks of Feminist Activism (or, "Fingertip Rules")

 A bulletin on the board outside the Principal’s office at Riverdale High:

 

                                                               April 12, 1993

“Fingertip Rule”

Girls are reminded that, as per dress code policy, skirts may be worn

no shorter than the longest fingertip, with arms fully extended at the

sides of the body and the waistband of the skirt above the hips.

Failure to comply to dress code will result in suspension.

                                                             Principal W. Weatherbee

 

The skirt is from his older sister’s closet: a plain purple-and-black tartan that pleated slightly and fell just below mid-thigh. The hem ends a good few inches above the knees, but still stays long enough when he sits to preserve his modesty. It’s pilly and faded-out - god forbid Linda let him borrow one of her _good_ skirts - but in spite of this, or maybe because of this, it’s startlingly comfortable. On day one, he’s already considering never going back to shorts and pants.

“Morning, Fred.” says Mr. Flores when Fred pulls into a parking spot next to him in the Riverdale High parking lot that Monday. The sky is a cheerful, cloudless blue, a mild breeze rippling the turf of the soccer field. “On time for once, are you?”

“You bet, Mr. Flores.” says Fred cheerfully, unbuckling his seatbelt and reaching down to rescue his water-bottle from the floor of the passenger side. He has Mr. Flores last period, having had to switch out of woodshop earlier in the year. Computer sciences isn’t really Fred’s bag, but it had been the only available elective, and Mr. Flores was easy to get along with. Sometimes he’d look at the mess Fred had made of his homework and just shake his head in a defeated way, and then Fred kind of had the feeling he was pushing him toward an early retirement. But other than that, they got along great. Mr. Flores was a big basketball fan, and always congratulated Fred after a game.  

Right now Mr. Flores is trying to open his cup of coffee while juggling his papers. His New Jersey Nets keychain is dangling like a pendulum from where he’s tucked his keys into the plastic front of his binder. “Turning over a new leaf?”

“Something like that,” says Fred, and steps out of the car.

His socks and sneakers get a nice little spray of coffee when Mr. Flores drops the cup, but Fred decides to forgive him for it. With a big smile, he turns away from his car and heads off toward the school, a little bounce in his step as he grins to himself with barely-contained glee. The attention he knows he’s about to get when he steps in the door makes a hot spring of anticipation bubble up in his stomach. He doesn’t think he’s conceited, as it were, but he has to admit he likes the idea of people looking at him. And thinking about him. Plus, he gets a nice breeze around his thighs from every step, and it’s really helping his mood.

Skirts are amazing, he decides, as he pushes the door open. Skirts are the greatest invention since eating raw cookie dough and everyone in this school deserves to wear them as short as they want, and we can all go around with our thighs free and breezy. If everyone wore skirts we’d have world peace and I’d get a nobel prize.

He’s floating on air all the way to his locker, even though the cheering and ribbing he’d been imagining as he walks down the hall doesn’t come. He gets a wolf-whistle or two, but for the most part he’s shocked the student population into silence. Which might actually be even better, he reflects. It’s his last year of high school, he’s about three months from the end, and he can still command a hallway.

“Hey,” Alice greets him distractedly when he reaches their lockers. Probably the only person in the school who hasn’t glanced at his lower half yet, she keeps rummaging around on the top shelf of her locker for something, complaining as she goes:

“I was up all night putting together this week’s issue of the Blue and Gold, you know that? That Gladys Grimley couldn’t edit a paper if her life depended on it. Oh, she’s a good enough writer, don’t get me wrong. But why they got her to be my replacement I’ll never know. In any case, I’m doing more work now than I ever was when I was editor-in-chief. And we ran out of room on the fourth page, naturally. So I had to pull Myles McCoy’s story about the history of jazz or whatever, and he’s going to be absolutely livid when he finds out, because we pulled it from the last issue too. But what was I supposed to do, not report on the football game? I know what he’s going to say, too, he’s going to -”

Her tirade cuts off into a little shriek when she finally finds what she’s looking for in her locker and drops her eyes to Fred’s outfit. “Fred! You did it!”

Fred drops a mock curtsy. “Fred Andrews, defender of women’s rights, at your service.”

“Oh, this is brilliant,” breathes Alice, ignoring him, her bright eyes fixed on a point far away. He sees her journalistic wheels spinning. “Hey, if I made you a protest sign, would you carry it? At lunch, at least. You know what to say if you get sent to the principal’s, don’t you?” She suddenly seizes his collar. “ _Fred Andrews_ , we only get one shot at this, so you’d better not goof around and -”

“Fred!” Hermione goggles at him, her painted lips dropped open in a startled O. “You should have borrowed one of mine. That colour is all wrong for you.” She’s all over him in an instant, pinching his sides as she tries to loosen the Riverdale High Athletics t-shirt he’d tucked into the waistband of the purple skirt. “You’ve tucked this way too tight. And _please_ wear different shoes tomorrow. Borrow Ally’s boots or _something_ ”

“Ally’s boots stink to the high heavens.” Alice has huge feet for a girl, and Fred has kind of small ones for a guy, and they’ve been sharing shoes since the seventh grade. The boots in question are a heavy pair of black combat lace-ups, which Alice adores and never washes. Fred hasn’t had the stomach to ask to wear them: they smell like a combination of locker room and old eggs.

“But _sneakers_ , Fred? With tartan?”

Alice laughs. “He’s not here to win a fashion show, he’s here to make a point for us. Which he’s going to do.” She turns to face him. “You’re telling everyone what this is about, right?”

“No one’s asked yet.” Fred puts up both hands up in front of his chest, because Alice looks ready to jump down his throat. “Al, I promise, I’m not going to make this about me. This is about the women’s lib thing. Your dress code’s unfair, it’s sexist, and I’m just here to show Weatherbee he’s wrong.”

“Good.” Alice swings her curtain of blonde hair behind her. “But quit calling me Al.”

“Has Mary seen you yet?” demands Hermione eagerly, and Fred’s stomach does an anxious little flip-flop for the first time since that morning.

“No,” he admits, feeling like butterflies are grazing the interior walls of his stomach. _Mary._ He hadn’t considered what she’d thought of all this, but he’d spent the past two months trying and totally failing to convince her that he wasn’t the cocky asshole she seemed to have him pegged for. What if she misinterpreted the whole thing, thought he was totally self-absorbed for it, or that he was making fun? What if she thought his knees looked stupid in this thing? “Not yet.”

“She’ll love you for it,” Alice reassures him quickly, barreling ahead. “If you don’t get listened to today, I say we keep this up for the whole week. I’ll dash off an editorial tonight, anyways, or I’ll ask Gladys to do it - she can handle that, at least - and try to get some of your guy friends in on it for tomorrow, if you can. You can raid mine and Hermione’s closets if you need.”

“I’ve got four sisters, Al _-ice”_ he adds quickly, because Alice had developed a total aversion in the past year to her old tomboy nickname. “There are more old skirts at my house than we know what to do with.”

“Good. Get some guys into them. As for that protest sign-”

“FP’s coming.” says Hermione, with a delighted grin.

FP commands attention when he walks down a hall too: it’s the magic combination of his BMOC football status and the little bit of danger burning behind that wholesome facade of the letterman jacket. It helps that he rides a glistening black motorbike to school and usually has grease streaked up and down his arms.

He doesn’t swagger or strut like other guys from the Southside, doesn’t spit or snarl or do that little curl thing with his hair in front. The toughness in FP is something burning deep behind his eyes, something constant and unchallenged and full of fire. He’s cool. He’s so fucking cool. And he’s Fred’s best friend.

It had been Fred’s idea that they go out for football in sophomore year: FP had allowed himself to be dragged to tryouts more for Fred’s benefit than any real interest of his own. But while Fred hadn’t even made the first cut, FP had discovered he had a real talent for it. As he strides down the first-floor hallway in his motorcycle boots, heads are turning because - save the potential challengers of asshole extraordinaire Hal Cooper and their loudmouth captain Rick Banks - FP Jones is the best football player at Riverdale High.

“Does he know?” asks Hermione, shielding her eyes with one hand from the early-morning sun.

“Not a thing.”

Hermione cackles. “I love you, Fred.”

If this had been October, those four words would have hit him like a freight train, bowled him over, sent him over the fucking moon. There was a time in his life he would have walked over nails to hear that from Hermione’s lips, even teasingly. But Hiram Lodge had won that particular game, Hermione had been pushing him away since before Christmas, and after a while Fred had let himself be pushed. He thinks something he never would have imagined four months ago: that they might just be able to swing the exes-to-friends thing after all. Maybe even for the rest of their lives.

Out of the corner of his eye, Fred sees Alice bite her lip anxiously for a moment at FP’s approach before rearranging her features into a look of perfect togetherness. Alice and FP are going through their own thing since Alice started going out with Hal. Neither of them talk to him about it, but he can feel the pain in waves off both of them when they’re together. For the sake of their foursome they try to keep it out of the group dynamic, but it’s been spreading under the skin all throughout senior year like a bruise. FP claims he doesn’t give a shit about Alice anymore - romantically, at least - but the whole thing reeks of unfinished business. It’s annoying. And he doesn’t like seeing FP hurt.

FP gets there, grunts to Alice, and turns to look at Fred. His mouth drops open.

“What’s this?”

Fred _hadn’t_ told his best friend about his plan to wear Linda’s clothes to school today, and is suddenly very pleased with himself for this omission. The look of shock on FP’s face is too good to miss. He wishes he had a camera.

Alice jumps in with an explanation. “We’re protesting. The girls were in assembly last Friday while you guys were in shop class. Weatherbee did a whole spiel about dress code and decency, totally sexist. Dress code is a page and a half long for girls, and all the boys have to do is keep their hats off. So Fred’s technically not out of dress code right now. Nor is any boy who decides to wear a skirt, no matter how short it is.”

FP’s staring hard at Fred’s thighs, and Fred knows he’s imagining him in something shorter. He shoots FP a wink, and FP looks quickly away.

“Well, good for you. But you won’t get me in one of those.”

“If Fred plays his cards right, we won’t have to.” says Hermione. “But you’d sure help our cause if you did. And for the record, I think you’d look good in denim.” She slips her arm playfully through Alice’s and steers her away. “We’ll see you two in class.”

Fred watches them go. He appreciates Hermione’s ability to diffuse the tension in a situation, but sometimes he just wants Alice and FP to be forced to talk this thing out. Alice seems to be the furthest thing on FP’s mind, however. He moves in very close to Fred, so that Fred can feel the heat coming off of his body. One of his hands comes up and reverently clutches Fred’s side, just under his armpit, his thumb smoothing over the lines of Fred’s ribs. He’s eye-to-eye with FP’s adam’s apple, and FP’s breath tickles hot over his cheek when he leans in to speak.

“Can I fuck you in that skirt later?”

Fred had not expected to hear that first thing on a Monday morning, and thinks this might be the best Monday he’s ever had so far in his life. He reaches down as answer and moves FP’s hand gently to his thigh. FP yanks his hand back like he’s been burned, breath expelling from his throat in a harsh gasp, and then turns and starts walking briskly to first period as the bell rings like he’s never moved to a class in his life. Fred grins again, the butterfly feeling in his stomach all but gone.

As Mondays went, this wasn’t his worst.

* * *

“Hey, Fred!” hollers Kenny across homeroom. “You’re out of dress code!”

Titters go up throughout the class, and a few whistles. FP, in his normal seat at the very back of the room, has bright red apples burning in his cheeks as he stares resolutely into his lap.

“Dress code says girls can’t wear skirts longer than their fingertips.” says Fred cheerfully, switching direction and taking the seat next to FP instead of his normal one in the middle. “Nothing about guys.”

“Hey, stand up.” complains Sierra. “I didn’t see.”

Fred gets up, strikes an exaggerated pose with one hand on his hip, and listens with joy to the hooting and applause. He’s such a ham, he really is. He hates himself for it sometimes.

Alice stands up now. “Fred’s protesting the unjust dress codes that the school administration has put in place for us girls. They’ve decided to shame our bodies at the expense of our education, and we’re sick and tired of it. We want to know why there’s no rules governing the decency of boys while we’re forced to abide by these totally antiquated rules.”

“Hear, hear!” says Mary heartily, and Fred’s stomach does that flip again.

“Fred for president!” says Harry Clayton loudly.

“You look great, Fred.”

“Screw the dress code!”

A handful more students are standing up, mostly to see Fred’s ass better, but Alice is enthused by the response, speaking louder. “For everyone who’s interested, we’re starting protests this week. Keep reading the Blue and Gold for updates -”

“CLASS!”

Mrs. Haggly has just walked in the room to a cacophony of noise, with at least a half dozen students out of their seats. Her eyes shift accusatorily around the room, skipping over Alice before coming to rest on Fred. At the sight of his skirt she gasps.  

“Andrews, what is the meaning of this?” demands Mrs. Haggly, one hand clasped to her broad chest, the other searching out a grip on her desk as if she might fall over.

“It’s my clothes, Mrs. Haggly.”

“Don’t play coy with me, boy. Are you so determined to disrupt my class?”

He wonders if starting this in Haggly’s class was the best idea. She was still pretty sore at him from a prank he and FP had pulled last week. In his defense, that dead eel in the biology room hadn’t had anything else to do.

“It doesn’t say anywhere in the dress code that he can’t.” speaks up Mary, and the butterflies in his gut turn into a swirling water-park vortex.

“Mary’s right.” says Hermione smoothly. “Girls can’t wear short skirts, but it doesn’t say boys can’t.”

“Well, they most certainly can’t in my class.” Haggly, face pink, points at the door. “Fred, you’ve wasted enough of this class’ time. Go change this instant.”

A murmur rises up. Every eye is on him. Fred smiles apologetically, but stands firm. He can tell by the heat in his cheeks that his face is blazing, but he tries his best to play it cool. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Haggly, but there’s no rule against it.”

“No rule against-” Haggly wheezes, looking a few minutes from a heart attack. “We’ll see what the principal has to say about that. Or are you going to change?”

“I’ll go to the principal’s office,” says Fred, and Alice pumps a single fist in the air.

Haggly turns to her. “Did you have a question, Alice, dear?”

“Oh, no, I was only stretching.”

Fred goes as quickly as possible, only casting a hurried glance back instinctively over his shoulder to FP, who raises a hand in farewell and mouths _good luck_.

* * *

In his four years at Riverdale High, Fred has memorized every single poster, sign, and slogan in Mr. Weatherbee’s office. He may have spent more time here than the gym, the cafeteria, and the student lounge combined, challenged only by the hours he racked up in the detention room as a result of these visits. The secretary actually just rolls her eyes when she sees him and waves him in. _What the hell could you have possibly done this early on a Monday?_ she seems to be asking. Fred laughs to himself. Admittedly, this was probably the earliest he’d ever made it here. But where there’s a will there’s a way.

Weatherbee just looks at him for a long time, and then at the hem of the skirt. Fred wonders for a moment if he’s going to ask him to do the fingertip test. The skirt ends a good few inches above his longest finger, on purpose. _Fingertip rule_. How dumb was that? What if you had monkey arms?

“Andrews, I understand that Coach Kleats has you keep two gym uniforms in your locker. Do you have at least one of them clean?”

“Yes.” says Fred. “But-”

“You’re to change into one pair of uniform shorts and wear those for the rest of the school day.”

“Sir, the reason I’m wearing this is in protest of the dress code you’ve implemented for girls. It’s very sexist and unfair.”

“Ah. You’ve spoken to Alice Smith.” Weatherbee folds his hands on his desk. “I’ll give you the answer I gave her: the dress code is intended to make Riverdale High a place for learning. It has worked well for us for years, and we are not considering changes to it. Fred, please change and go back to class.”

“I won’t, sir. I won’t until this is put right.” Fred takes a deep breath and seats himself on the uncomfortable wooden chair facing the principal’s desk. He has to kind of arrange his skirt around his legs to do it, which is neat. His heart is pounding like a jackhammer, but he forces himself to speak up. “I want you to reconsider the dress code policy. Alice is right, it’s outdated. Girls bodies shouldn’t be considered a distraction.”

Weatherbee’s eyes almost pop out of his head. “From _you_ , Fred? _You’re_ of the opinion that inappropriate dress doesn’t pose a distraction from learning?”

Fred knows this sounds implausible, but tries anyway. “I am, sir.”

Weatherbee sits there for a long time with his fingers pressed to his temples, looking for all the world like he needs an aspirin. Or a drink. Fred wets his lips nervously, trying to guess what Alice would say. “If you’ll just consider-”

“Fred, the dress code is very specific, and the dress code we uphold - that we are proud to uphold - is in action across the school board. It isn’t just Riverdale High, it’s all the schools: Central, Baxter, Southside, Rival. To attempt to make a change to the code would require the involvement of the district superintendent, and I can assure you, he will not be in favour of your liberal policies. Getting Riverdale High involved in this will look very bad for us.”  

Fred frowns. “How can it look bad for us? The policy isn’t fair. Look, maybe you can talk to Alice. She can explain better than I can-”

“Fred-” begins Weatherbee harshly, looking tired of the conversation, but Fred cuts him off:

“This is important, Mr. Weatherbee. It’s about women’s rights, equal rights. It _will_ look good for the school, I-”

“ **_FRED_ **.”

Fred almost has a heart attack. No matter how many times the Bee yells at you, it doesn’t get easier. The guy has a pair of lungs like twin submarines.

“Our conversation is closed.” The Bee takes a long, deep breath, and pinches at the skin above his nose. “Technically, you’re right, you’re not in code violation, so I can’t make you change. But I can caution you that you’re not making things easy for yourself.”

“With respect, Sir, when have I ever made things easy for myself?”

“You’re treading very unsteady ground.”

“I accept that.”

The Bee heaves a sigh. “Please get back to class, and avoid giving Mrs. Haggly a heart attack.”

“I’ll do what I can,” says Fred icily, and leaves, the breeze tickling pleasantly around his bare thighs as he goes.

* * *

 

Second period goes better than first. Math is Fred’s worst subject, but he volunteers to solve a problem at the blackboard anyway, just so the whole class can get a full view of the bare backs of his knees. He’d relayed Weatherbee’s spiel to Alice and Hermione in between classes. Alice had been unimpressed, but had responded by redoubling her efforts. She’d started passing a sheet of lined paper around the class, and though Fred doesn’t know what’s on it, Al has this wicked gleam in her eye that makes him sure Weatherbee’ll be phoning that district superintendent sooner than he thinks.

Hiram looks deeply sulky at all the attention Fred’s getting, and hisses a clenched-teeth _“faggot_ ” as Fred walks back to his seat, but it’s the first and only insult of its kind. It makes Fred more sure than ever that Hiram and his cronies had been the ones to write that word on his locker last year. Fred hadn’t been bothered - as someone who was pretty open about his sexuality he was impressed that a little light vandalism was all he was getting - but FP and his football friend Jerry had been out for blood on his behalf. Fred told them not to worry. Coming from Hiram Lodge, a stain on the white T-shirt of humanity, it doesn’t bother him one bit.  

Miss Smitt takes him aside after class and for one truly terrifying minute Fred thinks he must have flunked that winter exam like no one before, but she only smiles at him and rests one well-manicured hand on his shoulder, wafting the cotton candy smell of her chewing gum into his personal space.

“Fred, I just wanted to say that what you’re doing takes a lot of courage. You’re a wonderful young man.”

Fred smiles, and remembers suddenly that Miss Smitt is Mary’s favourite teacher.

“When I was growing up, they didn’t want us girls wearing pants. Times change. You’ll see it happen.”

“Thanks,” says Fred earnestly.

“Oh, and-” A brief shadow crosses her face. “About the winter exam-”

_Fuck._

* * *

“Freddie, you have a nice set of legs,” says Marilyn, the head cheerleader. Fred beams. Everywhere he’d turned since the lunch bell rang he’d found people complimenting him. Not that it was about him, he reminds himself, but enjoying that glow of adoration never hurt anybody. He hates to say it, but he’s pretty sure this purple skirt never got this kind of attention when Linda wore it. He grins to himself and decides to tell her that tonight.

Alice is sitting at her normal table, surrounded by girls, lunch untouched in front of her, talking a mile a minute. “We’re having a sit-in.” she says when Fred gets close, scribbling the whole time in her notebook. “I’m thinking the principal’s office, maybe the hallway.”

“Alice, don’t you want to eat outside?” gripes Hal, who’s pinned in the chair next to her by Sierra on one side of him and Gladys on the other. Fred smirks and walks past them, toward the cafeteria line. Hal Cooper and Hiram Lodge should get together. They were both totally insufferable and dating girls way out of their league: they’d have a lot to talk about.

Was that petty? That was petty. He was developing an attitude. It was all that air around his thighs and knees.

“There you are,” says a voice behind him.

Fred turns to see FP, still in his letterman despite the warm day, his ratty backpack slung over one shoulder. Fred grins at his appearance. As nice as it was to get attention from all directions, nothing compared to him and FP. They’d been inseparable since freshman year, and no matter who lined up to eat lunch with him, Fred would rather be with his friend.  

FP slides himself into line beside Fred, jostling him a bit with his bookbag. Seeing as FP rarely goes to class and absolutely never takes notes, Fred isn’t sure what could be in there.

“What kind of underwear do you wear with that?” he asks with a smirk, eyeing the front of Fred’s skirt.

Fred smiles again, helping himself to a cafeteria tray. “None whatsoever.”

“Fuck you,” hisses FP under his breath, because they’re in public and Miss Beazley is headed straight toward them. Fred responds by stepping clumsily on his foot.

“What’ll be, FP?” FP’s her favourite student, and she goes straight to him even though Fred was first in line.

“Gimme a minute to think it over, Berni.” he mumbles. FP is the only person in the school who can call Miss Beazley by her first name, much less a nickname. “Haven’t had a chance to look at the menu yet.”

“Same here.” says Fred. Miss Beazley huffs, but leaves them alone and starts scooping some unidentifiable goulash into a glut of cafeteria bowls.

FP’s eyes are fixed hard on Fred’s face, that danger burning hot and heavy as ever behind them. “You hungry?”

“Not a bit.” replies Fred evenly, meeting FP’s gaze.

FP’s eyes move down to his lips, and then down to the waist of his skirt, and their bodies are close enough again that he can almost feel FP breathing. “Too bad,” he says roughly, almost a growl, and wraps one of his oil-streaked hands tight around one of Fred’s wrists, leaning in when he speaks so that his cigarette breath - second period was FP’s smoke break - hits Fred full in the face. “Because I’m fucking _starving_.”

The next thing Fred knows he’s being pulled, torn away from the counter and toward the door by the wrist that FP was holding, and yet he can feel the effort at self-control trembling through FP’s fingers, knowing they have to walk the three feet to the door as calmly and as slowly as anyone else, especially when Fred was wearing a LOOK AT ME sign low on his hips in purple tartan.

If Mary gave him butterflies in his stomach, FP made him feel like a full-on roller coaster. FP rushes him down the hall so fast it makes his head spin, backing the two of them through a random swinging door, already cupping Fred’s face in his hands as he presses needy, bruising kisses to Fred’s lips. Fred’s back hits a wall, sending a sharp shock of pain up his spine, but he hardly feels it. Their bodies are pressed flush together, and FP is all over him, and his head is swimming with love and dizzy euphoria and the radiant heat of FP’s skin.

“Where are we?” Fred gasps.

“Teacher’s lounge washroom.”

“We’re WHAT?!”

“It’s shut down, they don’t use it any more.”

FP picks Fred up, turns, and deposits him gracelessly on a counter - Fred hadn’t been expecting it and feels only the breathless, lightheaded feeling of being lifted and spun before the counter collides hard enough to bruise with the back of his bare thighs. Fred grabs a handful of FP’s hair - more for safety than anything, in case FP tries to pick him up again, but FP moans so loudly into his mouth that his tongue goes dry.

“Fuck, Freddie,” FP’s gasping between kisses, one hand fumbling to undo his belt, the other clutching hard to Fred’s hip, “you are driving me _fucking_ \- _crazy-_ ”

Fred hooks his bare legs around FP’s back, kissing him with fervor, and FP smooths both his well-muscled hands up the sides of Fred’s twitching thighs, sliding under the folds of Fred’s skirt and all the way up to his hips. He grabs Fred’s thighs tightly, moaning again as he massages the skin there with his hands. Fred lets out a sharp exhale of sound at the unfamiliar sensation - not quite a moan, but a soft, breathy _Ah_ \- and FP reacts as if Fred’s told him everything he’s ever wanted to hear, with a sharp noise that’s halfway between a cry and a gasping sob.

“ _Fuck_ ,” FP keeps crying, pushing his skirt up higher, one hand gripping the back of Fred’s shoulders, then Fred’s chin as he tilts his head up to kiss him, the other hand still working his thigh, “ _Fuck,_ Fuck, Fred. God, baby, I love you. Fuck, you’re so _pretty_ , fuck -”

He actually releases the enormous pressure on Fred’s leg to run his hands ticklishly up the sides of Fred’s ribs, over the t-shirt, caressing every inch of him as if he’s precious. His hands wrap themselves around Fred’s cheeks as he kisses him again, one thumb brushing carefully over his lips. Fred giggles and pushes his hands off. “F, why are you acting so weird?”

“I’m not acting weird,” protests FP breathlessly, almost petulant, but the way he looks standing there between Fred’s legs betrays him. FP’s eyes are huge and wet, his face flushed red, his lips parted as he gasps for air. His chest is heaving under his T-shirt, his backpack still dangling off his shoulder by one strap. Fred’s never seen FP like this before, seen him so needy. If this was what he got wearing skirts to school, his dumb ass should have started that three years ago. _Thank you, Alice Smith_ , he thinks.

Fred works his sneakers carefully off behind FP’s back and lets them drop one by one to the linoleum floor. As he does so, he reaches out for FP’s hand and gently moves it back to his thigh. FP’s eyes flutter shut at the touch, his head falling back, his lips open. Fred hadn’t realized he’d been kissing hard enough to mark, but there’s already a string of hickeys on the underside of FP’s jaw. His own neck is smarting pretty badly, and he might have to borrow a scarf off Hermione for last period.

God, poor Mr. Flores. What was he going to think? Maybe Hermione would give him a scarf that would match his skirt at least. FP is still standing there, eyes shut, breathing hard, hands stroking Fred’s thighs under his skirt. Fred presses into FP’s leg with his toe, getting impatient.

“FP,” His voice is teasing. “Are you going to fuck me or what?”

FP grins at that, cheeks still flushed hot, but gratefully no longer looking like he was about to weep or hit orgasm or both. “Do you want me to?” he asks seriously, hands starting to work in firmer circles on Fred’s skin, dipping every so often to the softer insides of his thighs. Fred’s cock is starting to hurt. The friction was nice, but it wasn’t enough.

“I thought it was pretty clear I wanted you to.”

FP steps forward so that he’s flush against the counter between Fred’s legs, and nuzzles into his bruised neck so that his next words tickle against the skin. “Just checking,” he murmurs. “Spread your legs, sugar.”

Fred likes being called sugar lots. He rests his head back against the wall and lets FP guide his legs open, palming Fred through the front of his skirt at the same time. He doesn’t even have to take his skirt off for this. Fred is seriously starting to think that skirts are the best thing ever invented and that whoever invented pants made a serious error in judgement.

FP scoops his ass up off the counter and pulls him closer, and Fred crosses his socked ankles around FP’s back. The fact that he’s still wearing his socks strikes him as funny and he laughs out loud, trying and failing to stifle it in FP’s shoulder.  

“You are so fucking tickled today,” says FP incredulously, a grin in his voice. “What?”

“I’m still wearing my socks.”

“Well, get used to it. I’m not stopping to take em off.” FP sticks two fingers deep in Fred’s mouth, past the knuckle. “Get me wet.”

Fred obeys, sucking hard, and FP moans. “God, I love your mouth. Hang on. Do all of ‘em”

He slides all four fingers in Fred’s mouth now, and Fred laps obediently at the bottom of FP’s fingers with his tongue. FP cringes as his knuckles hit Fred’s teeth. “Don’t bite me.”

Fred tries to say something about how it’s not his fault that FP has a giant mouth and he doesn’t, but with FP’s entire hand on his tongue it’s hard. FP takes his fingers out, trailing saliva from Fred’s lips. He presses a long, lingering kiss there as he pulls Fred even closer, gently lifting him off the counter and setting him down on his sock feet on the floor.

“Turn around and take your shirt off.”

Fred does as he’s told, pulling the T-shirt loose from the waistband of his skirt and off over his head. FP presses himself up against Fred’s back, pressing slow, loving kisses to his bare shoulder blades, his dry hand sliding up under Fred’s skirt to cup his ass, the wet one pressed to the centre of Fred’s chest to hold him closer. A year ago Fred’s chest was sparrow-thin and all bone, but he’s filled out significantly this year through the chest and arms, and FP’s touching warm, solid muscle.

“One more time,” he says, and slips his drying fingers back into Fred’s mouth. “Get ‘em nice and wet.”

Fred obliges. When he’s done he lets FP bend him over the counter, trying not to lose traction in his socks and slip backward on the linoleum. FP senses his problem and laughs, nudging his motorcycle boots up against the back of Fred’s heels to keep him there. Fred snorts into the counter, and he hears FP’s laugh rumble behind him, pressed against his back.

“Dude, I’ve fucked you in your socks a million times,” FP complains, though his voice rings with laughter. “Quit laughing about it.”

“Geez, sorry, just - _oh_.” FP had just slid a finger inside him and his breath catches, he’s suddenly conscious of the sharp edge of the counter digging into the space just below his lung.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. Keep going.”

FP works in a second finger, using his free hand to rub Fred’s hip through the material of his skirt, bunching it up and loosening it against his hipbone with his hot hand. He pushes Fred’s skirt up as high as it will go to do the third, and Fred tenses against him before relaxing. Then he giggles.

“What the fuck are you laughing about now?” asks FP.

“Fingertip rule,” says Fred, and shakes with laughter.

FP snorts, and presses up against Fred’s prostate then, almost as if to shut him up. Fred lets out a gasp of euphoria, thankful that the tips of FP’s boots are pressed to his heels.

“You feel good, Freddie?” FP presses deeper into him, and Fred’s head swims. He hasn’t felt like this since their last time, up against the wall in the locker room showers. Which was a little gross, actually, but with three of FP’s fingers inside him he can’t imagine it was _that_ bad.

“Do the last one,” he grunts into the counter.

“You sure?”

“I can take it, F.”

“I know you can take it, but it doesn’t mean I wanna-”

“FP, do it!”

Fred arches up into him this time, moaning into the countertop, feeling FP’s hot breath come faster on the back of his neck. “Oh, yeah,” sighs Fred, a heady rush of exhilaration filling his senses. “Oh, yeah, baby.” God, he was so corny during sex. He wants to slap himself sometimes.

FP pulls his fingers out and lifts Fred back up onto the counter, laying him back gently and climbing up after him this time so that Fred’s momentarily convinced it’ll break. It holds. FP yanks Fred’s skirt higher up and pushes into him and -

“Oh,” gasps Fred.

_“Ohh.”_

FP’s answering moan sounds the way honey tastes, sounds like he’d forgotten anything could feel like this. Fred definitely had. “Fuck me, FP,” he says to the ceiling. “Come on.”

“Oh, God,” moans FP, his hands sliding back up onto Fred’s bare thighs, squeezing. “God, Freddie, you don’t know _what_ you do to me when you talk like that.”

“Are you gonna fuck me or not, old man, I’m getting hungry. Lunch is almost over.”

FP lets out a laugh and pulls out of him, giving him a moment before he thrusts back in, thrusts _hard_ , and Fred cries out, the cry petering into a deep, long moan that FP echoes with his own, and now Fred’s really hoping that he’s right about this bathroom being disused because they can probably be heard clear across the school right now. FP keeps digging his fingers into the skin of Fred’s thighs, moving his hips quicker now as he builds to a rhythm, making these soft, whimpering, honey-sweet noises as he does it that leaves Fred feeling weak and breathless.

“You’re so good, sugar,” murmurs FP throatily, massaging his thighs, fucking him like it’s their first fucking time, like they’re fifteen again, and Fred lays there with his sister’s skirt up around his waist and sees oblivion, sees right through clear to heaven. All the books and songs and poems are wrong, heaven is a bathroom counter with FP Jones, holy _shit_ , is it ever. Alice Smith and her sit-in seems a million miles away. “Fuck, you look so good in that skirt, you look so pretty, you’re so good for me-”

 _"ohh"_ , Fred moans, head thrown back, scalp pressed hard into the counter, trembling and tense and impossibly happy, eyes squeezed shut tight, letting FP’s voice wash over him, those sweet little noises he’s making in between words. He reaches out for FP, grips some part of his letterman (holy shit if that jacket could talk) and surrenders to the feeling of FP inside him, FP fucking him for all he was worth.

“Yeah?” gasps FP, hands sweaty on Fred’s thighs now, leaving slick, damp imprints where he touches him. He doesn’t know what happens but the skirt tears with a _rip_ , and the fresh air on this newly exposed stretch of skin is merciful and lovely. “You like that? You like that, baby?”

Fred’s hips jerk upward, his legs a trembling mess, FP is pounding that sweet spot in him over and over and over again and it feels so good, it feels like nothing else has ever felt, like the beginning and the end of everything.

“Say it again,” he begs, totally breathless, his voice hitching over a lack of oxygen, trembling with the effort of speaking when every nerve in his body is so raw.

“Say what, Freddie?” FP’s breathless too, even with an athlete's stamina: from this angle Fred can see the tiny constellation of hickeys on his neck and is momentarily proud of them, like an artist admiring his handiwork.

“Call me baby.”

FP cries out as if this is the nicest thing he’s never heard and wraps one hand around Fred’s cock inside his torn skirt, working it as he keeps fucking him, so that everything inside Fred’s head goes away except this feeling, hot and everywhere and pure as light, so that his mind forgets what it means to do anything except feel, and the whole time FP is whispering _“I love you, you’re my baby, you’re my baby, Freddie, I love you so much.”_

FP comes first, sudden and strong inside him, and then Fred comes too, his body going limp with it, his head tilted so far back that his neck aches.

“Yes,” he moans, ”Oh, God, FP, yes.”

“Oh, baby,” sighs FP, wiping his mouth with a trembling hand and then running it down Fred’s stomach to clean him off, and Fred thinks for a moment that at least he isn’t the only corny one here. FP climbs on the counter and lies beside him, burying his face in Fred’s bare shoulder, breathing in the smell of his sweat, and they lay there for a long while entwined, FP still fully clothed, Fred in only his skirt, tangled and damp with sweat. FP runs a soft hand down Fred’s bruised thigh, still raw.

“I don’t know if you can wear that skirt anymore.”

Fred laughs out loud, running both of his hands through FP’s dark black hair, damp with sweat, admiring the way it smooths through his palms. FP sighs gently. Fred is the only person he allows to touch him like this.

“Come home with me,” offers Fred softly, kind of half planning a second round on his sister’s bed, beside her open wardrobe. “Help me pick out another one.”

FP doesn’t have to be asked twice.

* * *

  
In fourth period, the school administration, sensing they’ve rammed the tip of an iceberg, decides to try to settle the dress code issue out of court, as it were. Fred Andrews is paged to the principal’s office around 2:35, but never shows up. In fact, he doesn’t seem to be at school any longer.

When Weatherbee asks, Tom Keller says he might have seen Fred and FP headed to the parking lot around the beginning of fourth. Only he must be mistaken, because he wasn’t in a skirt. In fact, both of them were in their gym uniforms.

* * *

Monday night FP Jones makes a few phone calls, crashes on Fred’s spare mattress and has a terrific post-coital nap, the likes of which he hasn’t had in months. On Tuesday morning, eleven members of the Riverdale High Bulldogs show up to class in skirts. On Wednesday, it’s all of them, save one Hal Cooper. Weatherbee decides that instead of cracking down, he’ll let it blow over, which he’s sure it’s bound to do. Sooner or later the boys will get sick of it.

Thursday, though, Alice has her sit in, Fred Andrews is still turning heads, and the school is so rife with confusion at this point that Weatherbee decides to change his tune, handing out detentions left and right. The only thing is, detention doesn’t stop kids from sitting. And the dress code still implicitly states that girls may not wear skirts longer than their fingertips, but that boys can do as they damn well please. Which Andrews is certainly taking to heart, if his sudden absences from third-and-fourth period classes are any indication. And where Andrews isn’t, Jones will never be, and if Jones doesn’t graduate, Weatherbee’s looking at a problem with his perfect academic record.

Panicked at the thought of a visit from the superintendent in the middle of all this, Weatherbee calls the entire football team to his office, but it becomes quickly clear that if he wants to diffuse the situation he has to talk to the ringleaders.

Alice stands up for the first time in six hours, stretches her legs, and attends her summons looking like the cat that ate the canary.

* * *

“You realize that having your friend Fred Andrews - the student who put a circular saw through his hand because your classmate Hermione walked by in a skirt - champion your cause doesn’t quite help your platform.”

Alice is undeterred. “But did you punish Hermione for that, sir?”

“It’s hard to dole out punishment when that much blood has been spilled in woodshop. Many students were traumatized. Not to mention, Mr. Kroskut.”

“But did you, at any point, decide that Hermione was responsible for Fred being an idiot?”

Weatherbee has to hide a smile. “Well, he was certainly distracted from learning.”

“But shouldn’t he have been paying attention to the lesson at hand regardless? Can Hermione really be held responsible for what Fred thinks of her legs? Doesn’t that sound that we’re unfairly objectifying Hermione, who’s still a child in the eyes of the law?”

“Alice, you’re a fearsome debater. And a terrific activist.” Weatherbee stands up heavily, crossing his office to the small window. The pane in it has been broken and re-broken so many times that he can see the layers of glue and paint where the new glass doesn’t quite fit the frame. “And for the most part, I agree with you.”

Alice’s mouth drops open. “You agree?”

“Alice, I’ve held a great many sit-ins myself. It takes incredible conviction. That so many students turned out to yours, I think, is a sign that the system needs changing.”

Alice smiles nervously for the first time in six hours. “I think we owe Fred for that. Not many students would have shown if it wasn’t for him and FP.”

“FP?”

“He got the football team to protest. I couldn’t even get Hal to do it.”

Weatherbee sits down across from her. “I won’t lie to you. Nothing may come of this. I’m willing to set the wheels in motion, and to stand behind you kids. You’ve earned my respect this week. But there’s no guarantees. It’s very possible that, try as we might, we won’t be able to incite significant change, especially across the school board. And then I’ll need my school to become a temple of learning again. Not a monkey house.”

“But we’ll try?”

“Absolutely.”

Alice offers her hand, and they shake on it, and it’s odd, thinks Weatherbee, for a moment there he’d thought she was going to spit in her palm the way the scruffy Southside seven year old he used to teach at Riverdale Elementary would have done. And even odder, he would have taken it even if she had.

Alice Smith was a girl with guts, through and through. If she stayed long in the company of Hal Cooper, he’d eat his toupee.

* * *

He finds Andrews in the hall where Alice had held her sit in, helping a handful of other seniors pick up the garbage left behind from Thursday. He feels a rush of almost paternal affection for them, even Hermione, who was holding each piece of trash - mostly paper - between her thumb and forefinger as if doing such manual labor might irreparably soil her skin.

“Fred,” he greets him. “Can I speak with you before the bell?”

“Sure, Mr. Weatherbee.” He wasn’t such a nuisance at all, Waldo reflects. Maybe just clumsy, and misguided, and too honest with his feelings. (Next Monday Fred will re-break the window in his office playing baseball with FP, and then spill glue on the seat of Waldo’s chair when he attempts to fix it, and he will forget having thought these things.)

They walk out the double-doors at the end of the hall and stand for a moment in the sunlight. “Fred.” He gestures at the black-and-white striped miniskirt. “Will you answer me one question?”

“Sure.”

“Why?” asks Waldo simply. “Why all this?”

Fred shrugs, a soft up and down of the shoulders. “A lot of people think I’m doing this because I want to see girls in shorter skirts, and that’s not true. I think that the dress code is unjust, and I think that when there’s injustice in the world, it’s my job to try and change it.”

“What do you plan to do when you grow up, Fred?”

Fred smiles, ear to ear. “I’m going to be a dad.”

The bell rings, and Waldo watches him leave with only a confused shake of his head. He doesn’t understand these kids. And he’s accepted he probably never will.

But he respects them.

Whoo, boy, does he respect them.

* * *

“Fred,” calls Mary.  

“Yes, you,” she adds exasperatedly as Fred glances over his shoulder as if searching for someone else she might be speaking to. “I just wanted to say, I think it’s pretty cool what you’ve been doing for us this week.”

She shifts her feet, feeling oddly vulnerable. “Ally says Weatherbee’s going to try to challenge the dress code, board-wide. And I know some of the guys probably gave you grief. So -” She hoists her shoulders up in a shrug, “Thanks, I guess.”

This close she can smell him - the annoying pine scent of male shampoo, the faint smell of soccer-sweat from the match at lunch, something kind of like coffee, though she knows he doesn’t drink it. He smiles at her - not his ordinary loudmouth grin, but a smile that radiates such a genuine happiness that she wants to return it without thinking. He raises one hand and touches his stomach anxiously through the fabric of his shirt, a gesture that puzzles her, but she doesn’t overthink it. Indigestion from Beazley’s cafeteria food, most likely.  

“Hey, Fred. You still want that ride?” The voice comes from behind them, and Mary smiles, because she’s always liked FP, found him sweet and honest under his tough-guy mantle.

Fred pivots, drops the hand from his stomach. “Sure do. I was just talking to Mary.”

“Oh, I have to go,” she apologizes. “Spanish club. But I’ll see you two around.”

“Cool,” says FP and punches Fred on the shoulder. “We heading out or what?”

Fred grins at him and punches back.

As they go their separate ways, she realizes what it had been about that smile - it was the one she usually only saw when he and FP were together. It had a quietness in it that no one else brought out in him. And she’s happy for them, turning back because she wants to to catch one last glimpse of them in their glory - lean, rowdy, all-American teenagers in their last year of high school, and until the end the very best of friends.

 _Oh,_ she thinks as she watches FP slip his hand into one of Fred’s back jeans pockets. Oh, oh.

She could have slapped herself upside the head and yelled “Duh!” It was that obvious, and as one usually did with all obvious things, she had totally, completely, overlooked it.

But then again, she’s been overlooking her own obvious feelings for Fred Andrews for years, so maybe it wasn’t all that surprising.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Weatherbee used to be president of his university's black student union


End file.
